


That's All There Is

by infernalandmortal



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Gun Violence, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-04-28 18:45:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernalandmortal/pseuds/infernalandmortal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They regard one another for a while, simply standing in the misty night face-to-face. The ghost is young, tall - almost as tall as Murphy - and holds herself in a fight-or-flight stance that makes her seem fearless and afraid all at once.<br/>"What's your name?" He asks, looking down, returning to ritual when her presence disarms him too much to maintain eye contact.<br/>"Emori." Her voice is low and accented in a way Murphy's never heard before. There’s a pause.  Murphy makes no move to write; Emori makes no move to disappear. "Just Emori. That's all there is."</p><p>In which John Murphy can see the dead on St. Mark's Eve and falls in love with a girl whose number is almost up. (Modern-day AU, inspired by The Raven Cycle by Maggie Stiefvater)</p>
            </blockquote>





	That's All There Is

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was partially inspired by Maggie Stiefvater's The Raven Cycle so any aspects that look familiar come from there.  
> There is a mention of gun violence in the last part of the fic (the part preceded by '0') so if you're triggered or made uncomfortable by that, please let me know so I can tell you what happens at the end of the fic.  
> And finally, piano covers of 'Addict with a Pen' by twenty-one pilots really fit the beginning mood of the story, just in case you were wondering.

_** 57 ** _

There were plenty of things John Murphy could be doing on the night of March 24th. Honestly, the only reason he's at the graveyard is because he can see ghosts and he's figured out by now that everyone he sees ends up dead within the year. He feels some sort of settling in seeing them parade by, in asking their names and feeling relief when neither their faces nor their voices are familiar.  He'd been doing this since he was thirteen and the ghost that passed by him was his father and he didn't know any better and didn't know how to save him. Now, he keeps careful record of every name, just in case.

So here he is again, sitting in the dark under a tree asking ghosts for their names and breathing a sigh of relief every time he doesn't recognize a face. It's a good three hours before the parade of the dead ends and, just as Murphy stands and stretches, another ghost appears at the tree line. 

They regard one another for a while, simply standing in the misty night face-to-face. She's young, tall - almost as tall as Murphy - and holds herself in a fight-or-flight stance that makes her seem fearless and afraid all at once. Her green bomber jacket is three sizes too big and covered in patches from bands he knew and bands he didn't. A tattoo, stark against her ruddy skin, arches across her face. 

"What's your name?" He asks, looking down, returning to ritual when her presence disarms him too much to maintain eye contact. Her stained, ripped Converse have definitely seen better days.

"Emori." Her voice is low and accented in a way Murphy's never heard before. There’s a pause.  Murphy makes no move to write; Emori makes no move to disappear. "Just Emori. That's all there is."

Her eyes flash.  Murphy idly notices that her left hand is hidden, resting on the small of her back. "No one." Her eyes lock on his and he could swear she starts to reach out before turning and running.  She fades into nothing as Murphy's heart hammers in his chest like he was matching her speed. 

Murphy runs his hand over his face, wiping away the sweat and rain that had dripped into his eyes. She was just another ghost, one without a story or a last name. He'd met plenty of them before. It was nothing. She was nothing.

\----

School is Murphy's least-favorite chore. It's nothing more than an endless cesspool of stupid kids, ignorant teachers, and pointless homework. He knows that every teenager thinks the same but that doesn't stop him from ditching every time he can and blowing off the classes that hold the least amount of interest. However, today lent him a stroke of luck: the last half of the day was cancelled due to teacher meetings. Good thing too, or Murphy would have fallen asleep in World History, something he knew his friends would not appreciate.  Then again, that’s what he gets for staying up late recording the names of dead guys.  At least they seemed grateful.

The bell rings at 12:20 and Murphy gratefully escapes, waving a halfhearted goodbye to his motley assortment of pseudo-friends. Somehow he finds himself on the highway, speeding at a healthy 95 miles per hour and blaring alternative-rock from his crappy stereo.

And then, he sees her.

She's sitting on the side of the road amidst the tall grass with her eyes closed and earbuds in her ears. Her bomber jacket and tattoo are the same as he saw last night, only today she's wearing combat boots instead of beaten sneakers. Her mouth moves in time with the music and her eyes don't open even as Murphy pulls over and exits the car, approaching her with something like caution and reverence.

_She's going to die within the year. Don't get attached_ ,  the voice in his head warns as he scuffs his feet against the gravel loudly enough to cause her to look up. Her eyes are brown and glow almost transparently in the direct sunlight.

"Do I know you?" She asks, brow furrowing in confusion as she plucks her earbuds from her ears and blinks up at him.

"No, I-" 

"You're not a murderer, are you?" She interrupts, pulling her sleeves over her hands.

Murphy catches a glimpse of something long in her left hand - a knife, maybe? - but it's covered before he can observe.  "Um, no?" It comes out as more of a question. Murphy cringes internally.

"Well, that's good, because you're kind of cute and your car doesn't suck, which is saying something comparatively."

Murphy is effectively stunned, both by her blunt demeanor and her significant vocabulary. From the looks of the smirk on her face, he can guess that she knows just how disarmed he is.  She stands, brushing dead grass off of her jeans, and smiles slightly.  “I’m Emori.”

_Just Emori.  That’s all there is_.   “I’m Murphy,” he replies, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Murphy?” She raised an eyebrow.  “I’ve heard the kids at school call you John.”

He shrugs.  A shiver goes down his spine.  She crosses her arms loosely and waits, her eyes running over his face.  He never meets her gaze.  “You can sit, if you want.” She finally says, dropping back down to the ground and crossing her legs.  After hesitation, he joins her, pulling his knees up to his chest and staring out at the cloudy landscape.

“I hope it rains,” he muses aloud because it feels like that kind of day and he senses that Emori wants something to fill the silence.

She looks over at him and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.  “Me too,” she said softly.  “I don’t like just waiting.”

There’s a bandage wrapped around her right hand, the gauze on her palm stained a rosy pink.  She catches him looking at it; when she clears her throat, he looks up and raises an eyebrow.  “It was an accident,” she said, her tone steely.

He shrugged.  “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to,” Emori retorted, a hint of a smile in her eye.

Silence, again.  He plays with the grass at his feet, resting his elbows on his knees.  Emori pops one earbud in and, after a moment, offers the other one to him.  He takes it and laughs quietly when he discovers he knows the song.

“Pre-breakup Fall Out Boy is the best,” Emori declares, mouthing the words to the song and tapping her fingers against her leg.

“No argument there.” Murphy keeps his eyes on the sky or on the ground, barely touching her with his gaze.   _ She’s going to die she’s going to die she’s going to die. _

If there was anyone he wanted to save, it would be her.

* * *

_** 44 ** _ **  
**

He starts seeing her at school and wonders why he hasn’t seen her before.  She keeps to herself: eating lunch against the south wall at school and smoking in the same place between classes.  He abandons his friends in lieu of sitting with her and they develop a sort of rhythm of easy conversation and shared music, all alongside the freeway where they first met.  She calls him John and he doesn’t mind but what he does mind is the terrified look on her face whenever he so much as brushes a hand along her arm.

“Seriously, have I done something?” He asks one day after she flinches when he makes a sharp move in her periphery.

“What? No!” Her answer is too hurried and she refuses to meet his eyes.  He’s gotten better at eye contact now, and even more proficient at reading her, too.

“What gives, Mori?” He softens his voice and chokes back a laugh at the look of sheer bewilderment she shoots him.

“‘Mori’?” She asks, a hitch of a laugh in her voice.

Too late, Murphy realizes his mistake.  “Forget it. It’s dumb.”

“I won’t forget it.” She does laugh this time, little more than a low rattle in her chest.  “I like it.”

Murphy feels heat rush to his cheeks and prays that a cold wind comes soon to cover it up.  “Really, though.  Are you afraid of me?”

“No.” Emori shakes her head.  “I know I could beat the crap out of you, John.” It’s said with humor but there’s a darkness in her eyes that makes Murphy’s gut pinch.

He lets it go for now in favor of trading half of his turkey sandwich for one of Emori’s Pop-Tarts.  “You should eat better lunches,” he notes, “especially if you want to be on the track team.”

Emori holds her Pop-Tart between her teeth while flipping Murphy off with her right hand.  “I eat half of your ‘healthy food’.” She takes a bite of the pastry.  “Isn’t that good enough?”

“Depends.  Do you want to die young?” The stupid voice in the back of Murphy’s head whispers that she will anyway.  He ignores it.

“If I die young, I don’t think it’ll be Pop-Tarts that do me in.” She flicks at the carton of cigarettes peeking out of her backpack.

“Where do you get those, anyway?”  Really, Murphy just wants to know who in her life is both old enough and stupid enough to provide tobacco to minors, but he’ll let Emori think what she wants.

“My brother." Emori shrugs.  “He doesn’t really do much other than give me these and occasionally take me places.”  She looks at him out of the corner of her eye.  “I never knew my parents; it’s always been me and him and whatever crack-heads and junkies he hangs out with that week.”

An ugly picture started to form in Murphy’s head, a collage of the bandages that repeatedly cropped up on Emori’s person, the scars on her knuckles and her face, and her aversion to being touched.  “Do they hurt you?”

She shifts, hiding her left hand under her thigh. “You know what happens when people get too drunk or high.  Fights happen.”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”  He makes sure she follows his hand with her eyes as he brushes his fingers over the new bandage on her wrist.  The hitch in her breathing is almost imperceptible but it’s enough.  “How can I help?”

She laughs, a choked and angry sound.  “Don’t bother, John.  In a year, I’m out of there.”

_But you won’t be_ ,  Murphy wants to shout. “Just...promise you’ll call me if something happens.”

Emori gives him a strange look, but nods.  When she starts walking home, Murphy watches her until she disappears around a fork in the road. _  
_

* * *

_** 32 ** _ **  
**

She’s swearing in a language that Murphy’s never heard before when she grabs the back of his sweatshirt and pulls him away from Bellamy Blake, who is crouched on the ground pinching a newly-bloodied nose.

“What is wrong with you?” Bellamy snarls, almost lunging for Murphy again before Raven Reyes steps between the two of them, daring Bellamy with her eyes and stance to  _ go ahead, try it . _

“Stay out of my life,” Murphy growls as Emori shoves him backward, her left hand surprisingly heavy against his chest.

“Lay off, John,” she grinds out through gritted teeth, backing him up until they’re on the opposite end of the parking lot from Bellamy and Raven.  “What are you doing?!” She shouts.  “You’re going to get killed.  He’s way bigger than you!”  She raked a hand through her hair.

“Relax, Emori,” Murphy touches her arm lightly.  “He’s not man enough to do any serious damage.”

Emori snorts, but some of the fear leaves her eyes.  “How sexist.”

Bellamy approaches the two of them, his posture open and vulnerable.  “Murphy, I-”

“Back. Off.” Emori steps between the two boys, her left hand in traditional position behind her back, her right hand creeping toward her pocket where Murphy knew a small switchblade lives.

“I just want to talk.”  Murphy scoffs.  “What?  Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, actually,” Murphy drawls.  “Seeing as how you just insulted my choice in friends, I think there is a problem.”

Emori looks back at him, her face completely unreadable, and Murphy takes her arm.  “Let’s get out of here, Mori.”

Once in his car, Emori turns on him.  “What was that?”

Murphy sighs, starting the car and backing out of the parking lot.  Despite it only being four in the afternoon, it was already starting to get dark.  “Bellamy is a judgemental jerk who thinks he can dictate who I’m friends with.” He looks meaningfully over at her and is rewarded with a tiny blush.

“I didn’t know we were friends.” Her voice is small as she fiddles with the cuff of her jacket.  It’s odd to see her so disconcerted and it makes a surge of protectiveness shoot through Murphy’s heart.

“Well, what did you think we were?”  She doesn’t answer this question, only turns on the radio and fiddles with the dial.  “Do you want me to take you home?  Is your brother worried?”

Emori grimaces, but nods.  “He’ll probably kill me if I don’t show up.”

He fights the urge to reach across the gearshift and take her hand, choosing instead to keep both hands on the wheel and follow Emori’s directions to her house.  It’s a rundown one-story affair in what is essentially the middle of nowhere.  Three cars are parked out front, only one of which looks even remotely respectable.

“Thanks for the ride, John.” Emori hesitates before reaching for the door handle.

“What’s up, Mori?” He may not know her well, but he knows her enough to know when she’s holding her tongue.

“Can I show you something?” She asks, waiting until he nods before unwinding the wrap that is perpetually present around her left hand.  Murphy watches until a hand with mashed bones and fused fingers is revealed.  He hates how she looks at it with revulsion.

“I wouldn’t cover it up.” Murphy says, fiddling with the edges of her discarded wrap.

Emori shrugs.  “It’s disgusting.”

“Not really.” Murphy’s surprised to find that he truly doesn’t care.  It’s just a part of Emori, of the collection of scars and secrets and tattoos and circumstance that all came together to make her exist.  “It’s just you.”

“I didn’t think I was this ugly.” Emori says, trying and failing for a light tone.

His heart crawled up into his throat.   _Don’t get attached she’s going to die don’t do it don’t do it_.   “You’re not ugly, Emori.  You’re actually beautiful.”

Emori looks him dead in the eye and he looks back, overwhelmed by the transparency in her eyes and the knowledge that she won’t exist for another year and the desire to-

“Emori!” A man’s voice breaks Murphy’s concentration.  Emori sits back and breathes in shakily.

“I should go.” She grabs her jacket and wrap, shoving the latter into her pocket.  “Thank you, John.”  She hesitates, leans forward and kisses his cheek, and then she’s gone, sprinting to the house.

Murphy swears under his breath as he rests his forehead on the wheel.  He's so royally screwed.

* * *

_** 19 ** _ **  
**

"Do you want to go?” He asks when he catches Emori staring at a poster for the spring formal.

She turns, crossing her arms over her chest in an all-too-familiar defensive posture, and rolls her eyes.  “No, John.”

“Really?” A grin splits Murphy’s face and it feels strange.  “Because I think you do.”

“Why?” She quipps.  “Are you asking?”

Now it’s Murphy’s turn to all but die of embarrassment.  “Fight me, Emori.”

She pokes him with her elbow.  “I might.”

They stroll to the library in easy silence.  Murphy finds himself thankful that they have the same study hall and also finds himself tempted to reach out and take her hand.  He’s so lost in his thoughts that he almost jumps when something slim and cold slips between his fingers.  He looks down and her small, dark fingers are laced through his pale ones.  She looks down, a smile on her face, and says nothing.

They sit together in the library, knees touching while Emori writes an essay and Murphy struggles through math.  When the bell rings, they go out for lunch and nothing and everything is different.

Three days later, Murphy asks her to the dance, which proves to be a bigger heart attack than he anticipated. She says yes and rolls her eyes at his nerves even though there are goosebumps on her arms.  That night, she calls him for the first time and Murphy is so nervous he almost drops his phone.

“Do you want me to wear a dress?” He can almost picture her laying on her bed, her feet propped against her wall.  “To the dance, I mean.”

Murphy shrugs, though she can’t see him.  “Do you want to? I mean, I don’t care, but people might stare if you don’t and I know you hate that.”

Silence.  Murphy hears her sit up.  “All the dresses are too...revealing.” Her voice shakes and Murphy can tell she’s staring at her left hand.  “And my wrap would look stupid.”

A plan creeps into Murphy’s mind.  “If you want to wear a dress, buy one and let me do the rest.”

“What are you going to do?” Emori laughs, not unkindly.  “You can’t make my hand disappear.”

“No, but there’s something else I can do.”

"Fine, John.” She sighs affectionately.  “I trust you.  I’ll ask Raven if she wants to help me look.”

He calls Aurora Blake after saying goodbye to Emori and asks her for a favor.  She agrees and even promises not to say anything to Bellamy about the whole thing. “How long have you two been together?” She asks out of interest.

Murphy can feel his blush as he answers, “we’re not- we aren’t a couple.”

Aurora makes a knowing humming noise before saying goodbye.  Murphy hangs up and takes a deep breath, staring at the dark walls of his apartment and trying not to think.

Emori doesn’t put the dress on until the day of the dance - it was a massive battle on Raven’s part to even get her to try it on in the store - and when she does, she almost cries.  Aurora had sewn a long, loose sleeve onto the left side of the black dress.  It covers her hand almost completely and makes her almost look normal.

“Murphy’s going to freak out,” Raven says approvingly, looking at Emori in the floor-length mirror of Raven’s room.  Clarke pokes her head out of the bathroom, straightener in hand, and gives a thumbs-up.  “Will you at least let me do your makeup?”

“Do I have a choice?” Emori smirks, unable to get over how different she looks in the form-fitting, elegant dress.  Raven doesn’t do much, just some sharp black eyeliner wings and a little bit of concealer under her eyes.  She wants to cover up Emori’s tattoo but Emori won’t let her, saying that Murphy wouldn’t recognize her without it.

“It’s cute how you call him ‘John’,” Clarke says, applying blush to her pale cheeks.  “You’re the only one, you know.”

“I know.” Emori plays with the ends of her hair, which falls haphazardly down to the middle of her back.

Raven studies her face while slipping on her shoes.  “You’re nervous.”

Emori shrugs.  “It’s just a dance.”

“Yeah, but it’s a dance with your crush!” Clarke singsongs, grabbing her car keys.  “Now come on, you two.  We’re going to be late.”

The dance is a crappy affair, just like Murphy expects, but when Emori walks into the gymnasium and Miller starts elbowing him in earnest, Murphy decides that the night isn’t going to be terrible after all.

“I was afraid you’d stand me up,” he jokes, coming up behind her as she stands with Raven and Clarke, who quickly make themselves scarce.

She smiles, shifting in her black flats.  “Why would I do that to an upstanding citizen such as yourself?”

Murphy laughs at the irony and she joins in for a moment before watching Bellamy gather up the nerd to ask Clarke to dance. “What an idiot,” Murphy grumbles.

“At least he’s trying,” Emori volunteers, looking up at him and attempting to straighten the tie he wore at his foster mother’s insistence.  “He just gets nervous around her because she’s cute.  It’s a guy thing.”

“I know.” Murphy says, realizing too late how he may have come off.   _Screw it_ ,  he thinks, looking down at Emori’s upturned face.  “I get nervous, too.”

"Wait, there’s a girl you- oh.” She bites her lip as Murphy raises an eyebrow in a ‘really?’ expression.  “Y-you- John, that’s a bad idea.”

_I know. You’re going to die in less than a year and this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and yet_ “I don’t care.” He lowers his voice below the music.  “I really don’t care, Mori.  I like you. That’s all.”  He shoves his hands in his pockets and is surprised when Emori chuckles.

"You’re nervous.” She notes.  “You always shove your hands in your pockets when you’re nervous.  It’s your tell.”  She takes his wrist, extracts his hand from his pocket, and twines her fingers through his.  After a moment of weighted hesitation, she leans up and kisses the corner of his mouth.  “Don’t be scared.” She whispers.

He squeezes her hand.  “I’m not.”   _ I am, I am, I’m really scared because it never occurred to me that I might love you but I do. _

They stare at one another for a moment.  Murphy can see his thoughts of  _ help, oh help help help  _ mirrored in Emori’s eyes and, for one wild moment, he considers telling her about the ghost in the graveyard on St. Mark’s Eve.

He decides to ask for permission to kiss her instead.

* * *

**_ 11 _ ** **  
**

They never really start “dating” in the traditional sense and, in fact, nothing about their relationship really changes except they hold hands in the halls sometimes and occasionally kiss when they’re sitting in the grass where they first met.  It takes a while for Murphy to adjust to the new dimension added to their relationship; he’s grateful that Emori isn’t the sappy type or the clingy type, for that matter.

She starts running on the track team during the last months of school, doing sprints and relays at record-breaking speeds.  Murphy comes to each of her meets - sometimes even driving her there and back - and the way her jaw clenches with nerves and her chest heaves after she’s won another first-place slot is something new and not entirely unpleasant to his eyes.

It’s after watching her in that context for a couple of weeks that he realizes that, while cars run on gasoline and students run on caffeine and sugar, Emori runs on adrenaline.  She goes out to the parking lot with the track kids after school and does her strange version of parkour, jumping over trash cans and cars effortlessly, grinning and laughing when she falls and scrapes her elbow or rips her jeans.  Murphy doesn’t try to stop her - he just stays out of her way - but there’s always a nagging tug on his heart, a crashing  _what if what if what if_ that permeates her every jump or triumphant shout.

“Come on, John!” She pokes her head through his car window, her hair flying wild around her face, her voice loud in the recently-abandoned school parking lot. It’s been a while since Murphy’s seen her this confident, this happy.  “Wait, are you doing required reading?”

Murphy snorts and throws his book into the backseat.  “Where are we going?”

“I’m going to teach you parkour,” she says, opening his door and pulling him out.

“Um, no.” Murphy hesitates, shaking his head.  Above them, thunder starts to rumble and the clouds change from grey to black.  Emori makes no move to head for shelter.  “Emori, it’s about to rain.”

“Live a little, John.” She extends her arms and tilts her head up.  “It's just water."

“You are strange.  You know that, right?” Murphy can’t help but smile at her carefree attitude even while shaking his head for the same reason.

“And yet,” she raises one eyebrow with a smirk, “you love me anyway.”

“Yeah. I kind of do.”

She steps forward, takes his hand, and leans her head against his shoulder as the rain starts to fall.  Water rolls off her bomber jacket in rivulets and tracks down her face like tears. A tiny part of Murphy feel sad that he might never get to see her cry, might never get to see her vulnerable, but he shakes that fear off when Emori’s arm tenses under his hand.  “What’s up, Mori?”

“Nothing.” She wipes some wet hair out of her eyes.  “I just zoned out for a sec.” Murphy makes a noncommittal noise and kisses the top of her head.  Thunder rumbles overhead and shakes the ground.  “The storm’s close,” Emori murmurs.

“I should take you home.” Emori’s hand flies up to his shoulder.  “Or not.  Mori, what’s going on?”

“Just…” Her voice is muffled by his jacket.  Murphy is duly concerned; this is not the Emori he knows.  “Just stay out here with me for a while.  Please?”

He doesn’t ask but he stays until the clouds run dry and Emori’s eyes have lost the haunted, not-all-there look.

Looking back, he wishes he would have asked what she was scared of.

* * *

_** 0 ** _

He doesn't know.

In future days, he'll look back on the entire day and be plagued with what-ifs and 20/20 hindsight but he lived in the present and he'll always insist that's what killed her. 

The alarms go off at school during study hall; Emori furrows her brow in indignation and goes to the door before something sounding suspiciously like gunfire sent her racing back into the room.

"John," she whispers, pulling him under a table as teachers and panicking students do the same. Murphy says nothing, just grabs her left hand and holds on tight.

It's three of the privileged kids, the guys that hang out on the outskirts of down, popping pills and racing cars late into the night. They bleed anger and exude rage from every pore; the school is just the latest of the casualties of their hatred. One of them stalks into the room, a handgun dangling from his fingers, and all Murphy can do is hold his breath.

Had he not been holding her hand, she might have been safe. Had he kept his eyes down, no one would have died. The gunman sees his face and her hand and makes a beeline for them.  "Get up, freak." He growls, grabbing Emori and hauling her up by her arm. Her head cracks on the table above them. Murphy starts swearing. "What's your name?" He asks, turning her around and wrapping one hand around her shoulders and pressing the gun to her head.

She locks eyes with Murphy and, as she speaks, he could swear she  knows.  "Emori." The gunman looks her up and down in a way that makes Murphy want to scream. "Just Emori. That's all there is." Her voice is low, emotionless. Her teeth are bared like a rabid dog's.

Murphy barely has time to memorize the color of her eyes before a shot rings out and she hits the ground.

There are screams and cries and finally triumph as Miller's dad and the rest of the cops onsite wrestle the gunners to the ground and clear the school. Bellamy and Miller scramble in, stopping just short of Murphy and staring at the body on the floor.

"Murphy," Bellamy breathes, his brown eyes wide, his freckles evident on his pale face. Murphy stands up and says nothing, ignoring Miller's outstretched hand. He goes outside, starts his car, and drives. 

"Emori." He says out loud, testing her name, as he reaches the place where they first met only 54 days ago (yes, he counted while on the road - what else was he supposed to do?). "Emori, I'm sorry." His voice catches and, if anyone else were around, he wouldn't let his tears fall. "I'm sorry."

_Bygones, John. _ She hears her voice whisper through his mind and holds onto the sound of her voice saying his given name.  _ Now get in your car and drive, you idiot. _

He does. He goes to her house and tells her brother what happened. His face, harsher and more lined than Emori's, but with the same set jaw and arching forehead, crumples. Murphy feels a sick satisfaction at the sight.

He sits at the graveyard after that, scanning the treeline where it all began, half-expecting to see her ghost standing there, waiting and watching.  He doesn't but next St. Mark's Eve, his own ghost stands before him, just as sarcastic and hateful in death as he ever was in life. 

Murphy's never been so glad to see a ghost. 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to scream with me about The 100, Memori, John Murphy, or really anything in general, you can find me on Tumblr (infernalandmortal) or leave me a comment here!  
> Feedback is always appreciated! Thank you so much for reading!


End file.
